


Reckless Thievery

by prosodiical



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-23 03:01:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12497164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosodiical/pseuds/prosodiical
Summary: Percival Graves has a Niffler problem: it's started following him home.





	Reckless Thievery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lynndyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynndyre/gifts).



> You asked for Graves vs. the Niffler, and I hope this satisfies! :D

The instant Graves opens his office door he shuts it again, closes his eyes and counts in his head until he's reasonably certain he won't resort to a curse. When he opens it the second time it's with his wand at the ready to see the tail end of a Niffler leaping off his desk, leaving a trail of misplaced trinkets in its wake.

Graves lets a breath out through his teeth and sweeps his wand wide, a magical net falling across the Niffler's scurrying path. It tries to escape through the holes, but Graves isn't so inexperienced he'd let that pass by; the net sticks to it and rapidly shrinks, until all that's left is a annoyed, wriggling ball of fur and black, beady eyes glaring up at him from the floor.

"You," Graves says, and holds out his hand. "Here. Now."

He raises his eyebrows, pointedly, as the seconds tick on. The Niffler relents soon enough, scrabbling in its pouch, and Graves loosens the trap it's caught in as it slowly pulls his best silver pen out and reluctantly drops it in Graves's palm.

"Good," Graves says flatly, and lets the little menace go.

Oddly, it's been trailing him for weeks. Graves didn't think that much of the creature when he discovered it was its thieving from Grindelwald himself that led to his recovery; the enchantments were already wearing and he was just starting to loosen his binds. But he was grateful, in an abstract way, at least until the creature stalked the hospital halls for a week and buried a small mound of dragots and gold in his pillowcase, and things only got worse from there. By the time he was released, he knew he'd have to take matters into his own hands if he ever wanted some peace.

It's Goldstein who says the creature is Newt Scamander's, recently left for London, and chases it twice around the Woolworth Building before Graves finds it again hiding in his desk drawer with a pile of objects he's never seen before. "I don't know how it got out," she says, frazzled, and Graves sighs.

"I'll handle it," he says, and as she opens her mouth, expression turning dubious, "and yes, it'll still be in one piece. I'm sure."

The Niffler takes badly to discipline. Graves spends under two days trying to coax it before deciding a strict punishment-reward system might be a better help, and while it still nabs everything it can get its sticky little paws on, at least he's been able to move its growing hoard from his drawers. He doesn't particularly know what it eats, apart from the glazed pastries and donuts Graves keeps finding on his desk like a sorry-we-didn't-notice-you-were-gone, but it stays round and fat, its fur lustrous and thick and shedding all over Graves's office - and then, Graves's home.

The first time he finds it there, digging through his silverware, he swears under his breath and shoos it pointlessly out of the room. There's a distinct lack of anything here he's attached to, but the mere concept of removing everything Grindelwald had touched makes Graves feel like burning down his entire home. It isn't feasible, he knows, and so he's gritted his teeth and pushed on through; the Niffler, however, leaves a mess of junk in its wake and after a moment of blank irritation, Graves banishes the lot to one of MACUSA's evidence-processing storerooms.

He'll have to get more, but strangely it makes him feel better, knowing it's gone.

"You," Graves tells the Niffler, "just - don't."

It looks at him with wide, faux-innocent eyes from his pillow, someone's no-doubt-precious silver necklace in its greedy paws. And the next morning he wakes to an awkward lapful of Niffler and fur before the creature slips away from his half-hearted, sleep-impaired curse.

The Niffler nabs more than just silver and gold. Candy wrappers and cursed objects all find their way into the box Graves reluctantly set in a corner of his living room, and Graves starts setting aside time every week to sort his way through the objects inside. He learns more owner-identification spells than he ever knew existed, finds more than a dozen methods of sending stolen goods back to their homes, and starts a new form letter that offers a brief apology for the trouble it may have caused. The cursed and obviously illegal goods Graves deals with with a heady satisfaction, and he starts leaving out dragots for the creature whenever it takes something he's been struggling to get a warrant to obtain.

It's bad practice, probably, but Graves can barely control the creature - or so he says. Seraphina raises her eyebrows.

"It's not mine," Graves informs her, and tries not to look too amused. "I don't even feed it. I don't know how it got here."

"Percival," Seraphina says, "it sleeps in your home."

"And I've chased it out a dozen times," Graves says. "If you have a better idea for keeping it out of your things when you don't want it there..."

The Niffler brought him one of the gems off Seraphina's lovely headdress today. Graves takes it out of his pocket and slides it slowly across her desk, and Seraphina looks at him, pointed enough to cut.

"Well," she says, "I suppose you'll be glad to hear Mr Scamander's wand permit application came in just yesterday. I can only assume he'll be here within the month, at which time that creature can go."

Graves doesn't know how to feel about that. He says something, a tacit agreement, and once he returns to his desk, absentmindedly snatches his pen back out of the Niffler's paws. He studies it then, that odd little creature, who stares at him with a beady-eyed incomprehension Graves is mostly sure is just a facade, and says, "So. You'll be going home."

The Niffler sniffs and squeaks at him in its strange animal voice, then rattles around in its pouch and offers Graves a coin. Sighing, Graves takes it, flipping it over: it's one of the ones he's marked as a treat, a tiny image of the creature engraved in it with a spell. "You're not helping," he tells it. "You know you can't stay here. And from all I've heard of Mr Scamander, I think you'll be spoiled."

It flips its tail at him as it hops off his desk, scurrying off to who-knows-where, and Graves slips the coin back into his pocket as he watches it go.

Somehow, it's squeezed its way into his life, and Graves is oddly bemused that's he's only now realising how much; perhaps he's gotten used to the fur over his carpet, the improbably heavy weight of it when it clambers over his shoulders, the scattered shiny sometimes-valuables it hoards in his home. Graves retrieves some of his more valuable heirlooms from its stash and wonders if the Niffler will be able to keep the rest of it all. 

By the time Scamander arrives back in New York, Graves has emptied the Niffler's collectibles a half-dozen times, until he's managed to actually keep a few away from its hoard. He's set the Niffler and its remaining things in a box beside his desk and reminds himself that he doesn't even like the creature all that much, with the mess and unwieldy chaos it's brought to his life; once it's gone he'll be able to return all his family heirlooms to their rightful places, and will never again wake to a disgusting mouthful of black fur. 

The Niffler briefly makes an attempt for the door, but Graves clicks his tongue, stares it down, and it grumpily falls back inside, though not for long.

Scamander stumbles into his office after two more failed escape attempts, and manages to halt the third as he snatches the creature up by its ruff on its scamper through the now-open door. "You," Scamander says, "have caused me a right lot of trouble."

Graves clears his throat. "Mr Scamander."

Scamander looks at him, startled, then drops his gaze. "Mr Graves," he says. "I - heard you were looking after my Niffler while he was here. And - well, thank you. He's very slippery, I'm not even sure how he got away - or when," he adds, giving the Niffler a narrow frown. "I hope he hasn't bothered you too much."

"It's been terribly trained," Graves says, and nudges the box forward with an absent wave of his hand. Scamander takes it and the Niffler and drops them into his magically-expanded suitcase. Graves lets a breath through his teeth as the Niffler disappears, limbs flailing, and tells himself he doesn't regret this at all. "A chaotic menace. You won't leave it here next time."

Scamander glances at him briefly before he heads out the door. "No, no, of course not, Mr Graves. I - I'm sure you'll be glad to see him gone."

So that night, Graves goes home alone. He sets out his family heirlooms, returns his new silverware to his kitchen drawers. There's a candy wrapper he missed behind a bookshelf, and he vanishes it before taking one last look around the empty room. Everything's neat and orderly once more, and Graves no longer needs to set traps or treats or Niffler-deterring wards; he goes to sleep and knows he won't wake up to its irreverent chaos in the morning.

At least - he shouldn't. Graves gets three steps into his kitchen the next day when he sees it, its irritatingly unapologetic face and half his silverware gone into its pouch and paws. "What," Graves says flatly, and the Niffler slowly slides another teaspoon into its pouch. "Don't you have a home to go to?"

The Niffler drops its head when Graves picks it up by the scruff of its fur. "And not this one," Graves adds, unnecessarily. "Some other home. The one you came from, for Merlin's sake. Why are you even here?"

Graves sends a note by pigeon to Scamander, who appears at his door looking flustered a half-hour later, hair mussed and suitcase in hand. "I can't imagine how he got out again," he says apologetically as he steps through Graves's door, "I'm really very sorry about this - we'll be out of your hair again soon."

But he stops when he sees the Niffler in Graves's living room, already making itself far-too-comfortable with Graves's family heirlooms, a candlestick half-shoved into its pouch; Graves snaps, "No," and the Niffler freezes mid-reach, then gives him a steady glare as it pulls it out, then drops it deliberately on the floor. 

Graves catches it with a deliberate gesture and floats it carefully back to the shelf, keeping an eye on the Niffler's baleful beady stare. When he turns back, Scamander is examining him with a rather disconcerting smile.

"Well," Scamander says, "it does look like you've got this handled."

Graves says, "It's yours."

"He's more of a rescue than a - pet, really," Scamander says, "and while I wouldn't want to presume - he certainly seems to like you."

"Wonderful," Graves says dryly, and Scamander's smile twitches wider.

"I'm afraid," he says, "trying to make a Niffler move burrows is quite an endeavor, and - well. This one is particularly stubborn."

"So," Graves says, "you're telling me you - an apparently expert magizoologist - can't remove it?"

"They're very hardy," Scamander says blithely, "and will usually acquire their own food - anything human-edible will be fine, and they love chocolate as a treat. He'll shed his coat through spring; brushing usually helps with the mess. You do seem to have a fine handle on his behavior, but you should be careful around large piles of gold particularly - and you know how to reach me, of course."

Graves says, "Mr Scamander - "

"Magical creature care is a very rewarding enterprise," Scamander says quickly, stepping backward, "wonderful, really - and as long as you don't separate a Niffler from its hoard - "

Graves says, "You can't take it."

Scamander stops his retreat, bites his lip, and gives Graves a curious look. "I'm sorry, but - do you really want me to?"

Graves looks between him and the Niffler, already emptying its pouch of ill-gotten goods in a pile on the floor, Graves's kitchen silverware included, and sighs. "I don't know the first thing about keeping a Niffler," he says.

But, he supposes, he's willing to try.


End file.
